


we're the lucky ones, you say

by SublimeDiscordance



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Mild Angst, Mild Fluff, Mild Language, POV Second Person, Pacific Rim Secret Santa 2017, THIS ISN'T AS DEPRESSING AS IT SOUNDS I PROMISE, mentions of past relationships - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-23 22:52:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13200258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SublimeDiscordance/pseuds/SublimeDiscordance
Summary: Aporia: Noun. An expression of doubt or uncertainty.Or, the one where Yancy and Herc are left behind.





	we're the lucky ones, you say

**Author's Note:**

  * For [estei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/estei/gifts).



> For the prompt “As the remaining Jaegers are choppered to the drop for Pitfall, Herc and Yancy try to come to grips with being left behind. (or some variation on Herc and Yancy bonding or fighting over their hot-headed co-pilots.)”
> 
> I chose bonding. Sort of. I will freely admit this gave me lots of trouble for no reason. Mostly because this story wanted to be _ANGST_ and I'm not really 100% okay with writing solid angst for PRSS because it's the holidays damn it. 
> 
> Many thanks to my friend StrikersInDanger for reading this over for me. You're the best. <3
> 
> Title adapted from Aporia by Crywolf.

In the promotional vids, they make the trip from the ‘dome out to a drop site look instantaneous. The choppers swoop down, cables dangling. The techs hook up the a-grav rigs like they don’t take at least an hour of meticulous calibration each time. Jaeger and pilots are whisked away over the roiling ocean, or sometimes over mountain peaks for dramatic effect, and within a few short seconds the crew arrives at their destination. The a-grav rigs are switched off, the several thousand tons of new weight on the cables snaps the specifically-designed releases, and the jaeger falls to the ground in a dramatic, graceful plummet that ends with it rising and ready to do battle.

From personal experience, you know this is bullshit.

“Yance, you’re fiddling.”

A hand makes contact with your shoulder, and you can’t help the way you jump. You glance back to see Herc—Ranger Hercules Hansen, you suppose you should probably be calling him, but old habits and old friendships die hard—with his arm in a sling. His shadow-rimmed eyes make the weariness in your bones tug like molasses at the jittery energy skating pirouettes up and down your spine.

For a second you think he's going to smile at you. Go for the whole, “they'll be okay, you'll see” angle. Instead, he squeezes your shoulder, the angle awkward because he has to reach across his body to do it, and gives it a friendly pat. His hand doesn’t move, though, and you’d like to say the gesture is less comforting than it is.

“Figured you’d be used to your brother going off and doing stupid shit by now.”

That, at least, forces a breath from your lungs in a sound that might’ve been a chuckle if you were somehow able to make more than one at a time. You gesture at the holographic displays, the readouts showing how Gipsy and Striker have both been patched as well as the techs could manage in a few days—but neither of them is at 100%, not really. And they’re both being carried out to the middle of the ocean to face down two of the most dangerous kaiju any of you have seen. On top of that, the kaiju have always had an advantage in deeper water—there’s a _reason_ most engagements are near the shore.

But, desperate times and all that...

“Working the wall was never this dangerous, Herc. I always knew he’d come home.”

A single eyebrow climbs up Herc’s forehead.

“You telling me he never took the high-risk jobs?”

You look back to the displays, unable to hold Herc’s eyes. To face the knowledge there.

Of course Raleigh took the high-risk jobs. The kid’d worked top of the wall as often as he could, mostly to pay for _you_. Your medical bills. Your food. A place big enough that it could hold the two of you. You’d both gotten used to living practically out of a footlocker in the Icebox—and living in a room not much bigger than one, either. But a footlocker for two is still bigger than a footlocker for one. So, at some point, your brother had casually started taking top-of-the-wall jobs. The ones that make the local news every few days when the wind gusts and a few people take a long fall with a quick stop. Because they’d paid better, and because Raleigh’s always been a shithead without any impulse control. The foil to your more methodical, more planned—hell, planned at _all_ —way of doing things.

Not that your attempts to reign him in always work.

The geometric scars running down your right side twinge as you think about it. It takes Herc’s hand moving to cover yours for you to realize you’re tracing the patterns.

“That wasn’t suicide, Herc. This is. It’ll be a goddamn Christmas miracle if they come back alive.”

You don’t look back at him as you say it. Can’t. If you look at him, you know you’ll be done. You will crack wide open, right down the fucking middle, the dread in you oozing out like Blue from a wound that’d failed to cauterize. Because you can tell without looking—without _thinking_ —that Herc feels the same.

After all, everything is on the line for both of you.

 

———

 

The four of them are talking over the comms. Raleigh, Mako, Stacker, and Chuck. It’s mostly final systems checks—weapons power, core output and integrity, pressure in the joint hydraulics—but every now and then Raleigh will be himself and crack a joke. Kid’s serious _most_ of the time, but even with the a-grav rigs, the jaegers still weigh _something_ , and Jumphawks have a maximum speed of something around 200mph _without_ hauling a normally-2000-ton machine. The flight out to the Breach is just over 2000 miles—2164 miles, the display told you when you’d looked it up after the first hour—so of _course_ Raleigh’s going to get bored.

He sounds so normal. So carefree. Mako laughs at his jokes, if a bit over-politely. Chuck groans. Stacker’s helmet cam shows him scowling despite the corners of his mouth attempting to turn up in a smile.

Beside their helmet cams, their heartbeats are regular, if slightly elevated.

Your chest aches. Rubbing at it doesn’t seem to make it better.

 

———

 

“So when were you planning on telling me ‘bout you and Chuck?”

Tendo had banished both you and Herc from LOCCENT after yelling at you for, as he said, “Looking so much like a pair of kicked dogs I’m surprised you’re not whining.” Now, you’re sitting across from one another in the mess, potatoes and something that you think is _supposed_ to be some kind of roast beef—or roast _something_ —spread between you. You’ve just placed a forkful of the mystery meat in your mouth when Herc pops his question, and you nearly inhale it by accident. Herc looks unimpressed by your attempts to choke yourself, though he does at least push a glass of water your way that you swig down in several huge gulps.   

“I, uh,” you stammer out, gulping again, though this time it’s got nothing to do with your drink, “probably after this whole mess. I mean, I wasn’t entirely sure if..."

You trail off and wave your hands in a frenetic motion you hope conveys your meaning. Herc, angel that he is, stares at you flatly.

“Wasn’t sure of what, exactly?”

“If..." you sigh, and your face feels like it’s hot enough to make the meat on your table sizzle again. Rubbing at it with your hands doesn’t really help, but it does at least give you a barrier between you and Herc—and your hands aren’t _actually_ burning, so there’s that. “I wasn’t—I’m _not_ sure if there’s even anything to tell.”

There’s a grunt from the other side of the table, and a peek between your fingers reveals that Herc is still staring at you, but now one of his eyebrows is raised. His expression is still as implacable, as unreadable as before, but at least now you’re ninety percent—well, more like seventy five really—sure he isn’t going to murder you on the spot.

“I mean, I like Chuck just fine, but I _did_ also first meet him in, ah, Manila,” you can practically feel the flush on your cheeks spreading up into your ears and down your entire back and chest as a wave of relentless heat.

The only positive you can see is that Herc coughs and looks away, his ears suddenly pink.

At least he remembers Manila as fondly as you do. And how Chuck, all of sixteen and full of bluster and newly-minted swagger, had caught you all together. You remember at the time your main thought about him, after the embarrassment, had been how _young_ he’d looked to be the most recent graduate from the Academy. He’d seemed like a child at the time. Reconciling the angry man who’d greeted you and Raleigh in Scramble Alley with the gangly teen whose voice still cracked still makes your head hurt.

But you couldn’t deny that Chuck'd grown up _hot_.

(And part of you maybe wonders if he’s as good as—)

You shake your head. Clearing the errant thought at least allows the more appropriate ones to rush in to fill its place. How _furious_ still seemed like too small of a word to describe Chuck’s reaction to the two of you being brought back. How he’d taken it too far after you and Rals had failed to even begin to sync up in a test drift—apparently being ripped out of a conn pod leaves the kinds of scars that not even the drift can push past—and Raleigh’d taken a swing at the kid. The helpless frustration in your gut, the tears in both yours and Raleigh’s eyes as you’d hauled the kid off of Chuck. The words Raleigh had screamed, had practically _roared_ into the crowded hallway as you held him tight, that had changed everything.

_“I felt him **die**.”_

Because if there were anything a fellow pilot could understand, it was the terror that came with the thought of losing their partner. And, though you’re sure Chuck’d been told how Raleigh had been scarred—had been _broken_ —by what happened with Knifehead, hearing it from the kid’s throat, the raw pain and fear and frustration in the words, seemed to have done something. Seemed to have impressed upon Chuck the simple fact that this isn’t something Raleigh had gone through—it’s something the kid still lives with. Something he dreams about almost every night, waking you with his thrashing and screaming and dissolving into a quivering pile of limbs and tears in your arms once he finally _does_ wake up. Something that drives the kid to work himself ragged just to not have to think anymore. Something that has driven both of you to the point of desperation more than once in the five years since.

(Part of you has maybe always wondered if Raleigh’s recklessness—things like taking near-suicidal jobs at the top of the wall—is in part to free himself. Or if it’s maybe some self-sacrificing bullshit where he thinks he’s freeing you of some kind of burden—as if your brother has _ever_ been the one of you who’s a burden.)

Chuck had been civil after that. You and Rals had learned that, in general, snark and sarcasm were Chuck’s way of responding to the world—a defense mechanism, you figure, but you’d never say that to his face. And, though Raleigh may have—here read: probably did—missed it, you recognized something in Chuck. Something that spoke to the fact that he’s _twenty one_ , not forty one like everyone treats him. Something you see in your brother every day, in someone you wish you could’ve protected from growing up too much too fast—even if he had chosen it. So you’d been as kind as you could manage, treating Chuck like the adult he is but also making it clear he’s free to be himself around you and your brother—whatever that might mean.

It’d worked, as far as you could tell. You’d all come to an understanding of sorts, and eventually you might even dare to say that you all were getting to be _friendly_ with one another.

Although there hadn’t been anything exactly ‘friendly’ about the way Chuck’d cornered you last night and pulled you into a scorching kiss.

You have to shake your head again. It doesn’t really help the heat crawling over your face.

“He was just a kid then, sir,” you’re not sure why you’ve slipped back into calling Herc ‘sir’ since you’re technically the same rank, though you’re pretty sure it has something to do with him being Chuck’s _dad_. “We got along okay back then, but then he seemed to really hate me and Rals when we came back. Rals and I. I—”

You bite your lip, sighing. You’re getting off the point.

“What I mean to say is, sir, things were very different back then. He was young, I was—”

“You were bloody young, too,” Herc grunts at you, elbow coming to rest on the table as he props his chin on his fist. “Gonna make me feel old, you’re not careful.”

“—also young, but old enough,” you continue, trying to will the heat out of your face. It’s not working, at least not as far as you can tell. “And now...now he’s an adult. But I still see that sixteen year old kid who got starry-eyed when talking about jaeger tech and punching kaiju. Even if he’s buried under five years of war, he’s still there.”

Herc’s brows furrow before his face clears, his lips forming an O.

“Ah,” he says after a moment, his brows rising. “So you didn’t make a move.”

“Chuck did,” you admit, your head tilting to one side, eyes not quite able to look at Herc. “He kissed me. I...may have kissed him back. Last night.”

“So,” Herc draws the word out almost too long, then taps on his temple, “the dreams I got over the ghost drift last night featuring the two of you together..."

“Those were just dreams, we—wait,” you’ve made some minor progress in cooling your face down, but now it’s all shot to hell, “he _dreamed_ about us?”

Herc coughs, his own face tingeing pink.

“In,” he reaches for his water, lets the last few words fall out just as the glass is nearing his lips, “ _explicit_ detail.” He swallows. “Believe me, I didn’t wanna see it any more than you might’ve wanted me to. Though, I gotta say, the kid has a _highly_ romanticized vision of how big your—”

“Herc,” you interrupt him, your face falling into your hands, “if you don’t want me to jump off the top of the ‘dome any time in the next ten minutes, please just. Don’t finish that sentence.”

You hear him snort.

“Anyway, I suppose this is as good a time as any to tell you Raleigh snuck into _my_ room last night.”

You blink behind your hands. You’d known—of _course_ you had—that Rals still had feelings for Herc. He’s always had a thing for older guys. But if he’d done something with Herc _last night_ , then the memory would still be fresh in his mind. Which means—

“Oh my god, if Mako decides she wants to murder him for mentally scarring her, I might help her.”

Herc’s laughter rings throughout the mess. You chew your lip before dropping your hands and looking up. There are a few techs getting food shooting glances your way, probably because of Herc’s laugh, but otherwise the space is relatively empty. Herc himself seems to pay them no mind, although you could swear there’s a tension at the edge of his eyes directed solely at you. It takes you a split-second more to realize why.

“I don’t mind,” you say, perhaps too quickly. “Rals is an adult, he can do whatever he wants with any consenting adult out there. Besides, I’m pretty sure he’s had a thing for you since before even Manila.”

Instead of laughing like you’d expected, Herc chokes on his potatoes.

 

———

 

Hell, you decide, is waiting.

Waiting for Striker and Gipsy to reach the drop zone.

Waiting to see what happens during the fight, your blunt fingernails pressing crescents into your palms.

Waiting for those signals to appear. Once you have confirmation Striker detonated, it takes molasses-thick moments for the instruments to pick out the lifepods floating safely to the surface. Well, you _hope_ it’s safely—neither of them are reporting any life signs, but Tendo is quick to assure both you and Herc it could be damage from the blast.  And, later, when Gipsy melts down, it takes even longer to get the confirmation from Mako that Raleigh’s life pod has surfaced relatively unharmed. And then that he’s breathing.

Then it’s more waiting. Waiting for the lifepods to be safely recovered, hoping a storm doesn’t sweep through the area and kill them all. Waiting for med crews on the choppers to confirm that Striker’s escape pods are damaged but they can detect signs of life from both. Waiting for a condition report because apparently they’re both partially fused shut, so the techs are trying their best to pry the damn things open.

And then, it’s the endless waiting once the Jumphawks arrive, gently settling on the helipads, rotors winding down.

And then the doors open.

Raleigh, Mako, Stacker, and Chuck all walk—or hobble, as the case may be—onto the deck, safe and mostly sound. Raleigh and Chuck both rush towards you and Herc at the same time, and first Raleigh collides with you while Chuck and Herc have their moment, and suddenly the waiting is over.

So, maybe both you and Herc get your own Christmas miracles.

Alright, so maybe it’s a few weeks after New Year’s. Whatever.

Close enough.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Dear recipient,  
> I truly hope this is what you were looking for, or at least close to what you were looking for. I really really really (x1000) hope you enjoyed it. :D  
> Happy holidays!


End file.
